Running
by irishpiratess
Summary: It's been five years and Violet is in trouble. Syndrome is alive, and is regrouping the company, but for what? What can Violet do when the Incredibles are assassinated? Some people aren't meant to be enemies, but do the plans of others hurt or help?
1. Prologue

**Yes, yes. It's true. I am, indeed back, and hereby dedicate the grand reopening of Running to one crzysheelf, whose own Incredific made me remember my own, as well as her wonderful review reply simply asking me to redo this. So, well, here we are, back at the beginning; scenes have changed, been added, been twisted, etc. so that they match the plot I have in mind now. **

**Expect an update every week or so, and for God's sake, review, please; I lost inspiration when the reviews tapered off, leading to the story sucking more, leading to less reviews, leading to less sam morale, leading to worse chapters... it's truly a horrible downward spiral that is easily avoided. just click the shiny purple button or I'll have to resort to using bad authoress review-mongering tactics. Pleasepleaseplease, just review. I promise not to flake out this time. If I do... well, if I do, I will gladly let DSS come take my poor abandoned baby and be relocated to a foster home to be raised and cared for properly translation: I will allow someone else to take the story, with my plot line of course, and do what they like with it; that is, as long as I trust their parenting/judgment skills as well as let you guys pelt me** **with the yummy sugar cookies I offer in exchange for reviews until I go into an e-coma.**

**One more thing: the GENERIC ACTION TITLE HERE thing? Part laziness, part unknowing exactly when I felt like the movie being set at this point or, conversely,_ remembering_ when I wanted it set. **

**But, for the sake of appearances, I totally left it there for comedic reasons.**

**So, without further ado, I reintroduce to you... _Running. _da da da!!!**

* * *

The guard paused at the frosted glass door, halting at the thought of the man inside; he hadn't slept in days, but had sat in this room, staring at his screens, firing all that displeased him, sometimes firing a gun- though he never hit the mark, it always came frighteningly close. With a deep breath, he entered the code on the pad and the doors lock clicked open. He pushed it open.

"Sir?" He stammered nervously, struggling to regain control of his voice. "Th-the base is secure."

"Good." The man answered in a harsh, guttural grunt. "Clear any remaining bodies and destroy any evidence when you arrive there."

He went back to staring at his computer screen obsessively, watching the other henchmen loitering the premises, looking nervous and confused at their leaders seeming solitary confinement, at their lack of work, at what had been rumored to be coming up. Rubble was strewn across the previous base; the security there had had strict orders to detonate if the plan went astray, to destroy any evidence. But now, months later, he was operating from another, smaller base, securely hidden.

"They'll pay for this." He muttered to himself; the guard was sure the obsessed man hadn't registered that he was talking aloud. "They'll pay."

* * *

"Violet, honey, hurry up!" Helen Parr called from the kitchen. "The bus'll be here in ten minutes!"

"Um, Mom, I don't think I'm gonna go today, I'm not feeling too well, and-"

"But, sis!" Dash grinned innocently. "If you don't go, you could be missing an opportunity to talk to _Tony_."

"Shut your mouth, you little insect." Violet hissed, angry.

The morose teen sighed, shoulders slumped, hair hanging in front of her face as usual, as she took her seat at the kitchen table, idly poking at her cereal. It had been a grand total of three months since Syndrome had died, and the image of his jet exploding as he was thrown backwards into the turbine still haunted her dreams, ripping her from sleep in a hazy, terrified fury. Not, of course, that she would admit that to anyone; her father looked back on that memory fondly, as did her brother. Her mother never mentioned it.

About three weeks ago, Tony _had _asked her out- of course, with her assistance to push him along. Then, upon hearing his 14-year old daughter had gotten herself a boyfriend, her father had nearly broken down. Violet had been forced to invite Tony over for dinner, a spectacle that began with her father crushing the doorknob in his fist as he close the door upon Tony's entrance. It ended with Jack-Jack bursting into flame behind the nervous boy's back and nearly setting his jeans on fire.

On the way to the bus, she thought bitterly about the way her father had spoken to Tony. He had, by the end of a quasi-disastrous dinner, decided that Tony Rydinger was Not Good Enough for his daughter. Violet had burst into tears as soon as the door had shut behind Tony and run to her room; then, later, feeling bolder and angrier, fought with her father for a half-hour for the right to date her crush (she had lost, of course, but managed to save her dignity in the end by throwing force fields around the living room, knocking over furniture and shattering a window).

Looking back on the event, Violet felt a tinge of regret and foolishness, but it was dwarfed in comparison to her anger. Was it so unreasonable for her to be happy, for her to have what she wanted? Why should Tony avoid her? If he had really liked her, her father shouldn't have deterred him. Why should she be the one to suffer? This wasn't her fault! When she reached her locker, she carelessly tossed her books inside, slammed the door shut, and stalked towards him.

"V-Violet!" Tony stammered in surprise. "What's up?"

"Well, you would know, if you bothered to find out." She snapped. "Why don't you talk to me?"

"Vi, I-" Tony sighed, closing his eyes. "Your…"

"My father?" She guessed, more than a hint of scorn in her voice.

"Yeah." Tony sighed again, his face turning slightly red.

"My father shouldn't be able to scare you away." Violet announced. "If you really liked me, you wouldn't care."

She started to walk away, but Tony caught her by the shoulder, a calmer look on his face.

"Meet me at the movies on Friday." He said quietly.

* * *

"Sir?" The guard asked, not as nervous this time. "All systems are back and running."

"Good, good!" He said, waving a hand.

"Anything else you want, sir?"

"Yes, actually. I want you to find someone for me." Taking out a scrap of paper and a pen, he scribbled something down. "She goes by the name of Elena Benson. Should be found in the New York area."

"Will do, sir."

"Dismissed, Neal."

The man sat back in his chair, observing the numerous monitors displayed before him. Some villains preferred to hire security to watch the cameras. No, no, that wasn't him. He liked to be in control, and though having a few more people _under_ said control would be nice, it was better to be able to control the cameras himself. If anything went astray, he would know about it immediately; if anything were to go wrong, he would know what to do.

At the moment, seven cameras were positioned in the Parr residence. Two in the living room, one in the kitchen, one in the garage, two in the hallway, and, finally, one in Mr. Incredible's office. There was also one FOW camera- a fly-on-the-wall. As its name suggested, it took the form of a small black fly, and flew around the house at his bidding, landing and using suction-cup-like devices to secure it to the ceilings or walls.

Several other cameras revealed empty cells in the new base; a few more showed henchmen, wandering around the base with no real objective. Neal was the only one in the past three months who had served any real purpose; he was the only one _competent_ enough to. The others slacked, seeing no real purpose in defending a base that wasn't attacked, taking orders from a man that seemed to have no purpose in store for them. But they wouldn't question their boss. Neal served his job to the fullest, understanding the truth of the matter. Both his parents, criminals, had been killed by supers. He was trusted above all the others, and _knew _more than all the others. If none of the other guards did, Neal at least knew they served some purpose.

* * *

"Mom, I'm going to the movies!" Violet shouted from her room, pulling on a jacket over her t-shirt.

"With who?" Helen asked, her neck stretching so her head could stay in the doorway to Violet's room, while her body walked the laundry downstairs to the washing machine.

"Cleo, Thalia, and Patricia." She lied smoothly, smiling.

"Do you want me to drive you?"

"No, that's okay, I can take the bus." Violet's grin widened in nervous apprehension.

"Okay." Helen shrugged before shrinking her neck to its normal size and continuing her trek to the washing machine.

Violet boarded the bus, apprehensive. She had never done anything without her parents' permission before. Well, this was technically _with _their permission, but they didn't know the full extent of the circu-

_Oh, shut up, Violet. _She scolded herself. _Chill, would you? _

"Violet!" Cleo shouted. "Over here!"

So, she hadn't exactly _lied. _She just didn't tell the full truth. Cleo, Thalia and Patricia _were _there, but they were going to a different movie.

"Hey, Vi." Tony said shyly, and it was like the beginning all over again. Like they hadn't already done this.

"Hey, Tony." Violet said, equally shy, and smiled. "What movie are we seeing?"

"Well, I figured we could go see that new action movie-"

"Oh." Vi bit her lip, suppressing a sigh.

"Well, which did you wanna see?" He asked apprehensively.

"I was hoping we could go see that one." She pointed to the title for a comedy of some sort. Tony sighed.

"Well, I was really hoping we could go see that one." He pointed to his choice.

"But-"

"Two for GENERIC ACTION TITLE HERE, please." Tony smiled at the old woman sitting in the ticket booth and wrapped an arm around Violet's waist tightly, pulling her closer.

She sighed.

* * *

"Sir?" Neal stuck his head through the doorframe. "Update on the woman you were searching for?"

"Yes, yes, come in." He waved a hand, inviting Neal to sit down. "What's the update, Neal?"

"We found her living in Brooklyn."

"And?"

"We ordered a jet for her and had her things packed. All her accounts are being transferred to your banks. She should arrive any second now, sir." Neal stood up straight, standing at attention- before his switch to the henchman life, he had been in the military.

He grinned, the smile slowly stretching across his surprisingly unmarred face.

"Good man, Neal. Thank you." He clapped Neal on the back, then sat back in his chair.

"Sir, an Elena Benson to see you?" A bored guard stuck his head through the door, abandoning proper etiquette around his boss. He snapped his wad of gum loudly.

"Thank you. Show her in, put her bags in the second master suite, and drop your gun off at the main station. You're fired."

"But-"

"Your job will be terminated by the end of the day." He smirked, twisting the emphasis on the word _terminated. _The guard gulped.

"Yessir."

* * *

**Not much changed, but enough to make it an easier, better read, I suppose. So, please, REVIEW. I will in fact arm you with the sugar cookies you so want to pelt me with for going on a year-and-a-half hiatus I don't consider my small comeback in June relevant. **

**And, one day, the title Running will actually make sense. **

**I'm not sure when, because I don't remember why I named it that, as there isn't much running in this fic at all. Ah, well. I'll work it in somehow, I always do.**

**REVIEW!! **

**Yours flakily, **

**the irish piratess **


	2. An Old Friend

**I am indeed posting two chapters in one night, only because my alert didn't get sent to email on the first chapter, because I had to replace it instead of posting a new chapter. So, you get _two _chapters, you lucky dog. I do not know if there's anything new in this chapter, but reread the first one before reading this and review that, then come back and review this'n, plznthnx. As I mentioned in the first chapter, sugar cookies will be provided for your pelting enjoyment. **

**-Irish

* * *

****Five Years Later**

_The expensive black car sailed out of her father's grip and towards the sleek jet. _

_Syndrome hung out the window, gaping down at the family on the ground as Jack-Jack and her mother sailed downwards to them. _

_The suddenly frantic villain tried to escape with his remaining boot, but to no avail; the car struck its target and he was knocked backwards. _

_Eyes wide, Violet watched in horror as his cape caught in the turbine and he was pulled back into it. _

_The jet exploded, and as the rubble hailed down on the force field she covered her family with, she swore she could hear him calling, hear him sobbing, I only wanted your respect, I only wanted your approval, I only wanted you to like me._

Pushing last night's dream out of her mind, Violet emptied the blocky contents of the cellophane package into the pot and stirred in the fake, MSG-and-salt-loaded chicken flavoring. Mmm. Ramen. It was about the best she would get these days. Sighing, she brushed a strand of blonde hair out of her eyes, hoping he wouldn't notice. He hated it when her hair got in her face.

"I like your hair blonde, Vi."

Tony smiled at her from his post on the couch, but the ostensibly friendly gesture didn't extend all the way to his eyes; they remained cold and distant, as well as glazed over from a night of heavy drinking and a bit of pot.

Violet smiled back tightly, and muttered a quiet, sardonic thanks.

"What was that?" He snapped, standing up quickly, coming to stand close behind her.

"I said thank you!" She squeaked, heart racing. He wouldn't, not just for-

"Oh." He sneered. "There's no need to get cocky with me. No need."

"No." Violet agreed quietly, trembling slightly, terrified of Tony's unprovoked rage. "There's no need."

Personally, she hated her hair this color; in fact, she had loathed the very thought of being blonde when he first suggested it to her. But the fight that had built from something as simple as hair color had convinced her to. He had insisted, yelling when she didn't want to rub the gooey, drippy, smelly mix into her hair, rinse and dry. She had really had no choice.

Violet poured the ramen in a bowl for herself; it was, at this point, the most she could afford. She lived in a run-down apartment in a small, dingy city that cost $500 a month, and even those payments were hard to meet sometimes, as Tony regularly used her money for his own habits. While she had no car, Tony owned an old pick-up truck that was about to fall apart, and her phone was from the nineties and looked like it might have belonged to a joke shop in its early years. The entire apartment was dirty and dilapidated, not worthy of being called _home_. Violet and Tony were 19 years old, and she was working her way through community college, studying Art. Tony didn't approve, and regularly told her so.

Of course, he didn't live with her, even passive Violet couldn't allow it to come to that; but he might as well have. His things were strewn all over the place, with no regard to Violet at all. He expected her to clean up after him. The bruises from the last time she forgot to clean up still hadn't faded, and she glanced at one on her forearm with fearful anger, walking over to the small folding table that stood as a mockery of a kitchen table. Not even meaning to, she set down the bowl a little more forcefully than she had thought she would, and a large amount of broth sloshed over the side and onto the table. She swore.

"Jesus, can't you do anything right?" Tony yelled, face hardening into something Violet would have thought unrecognizable from the Tony she knew in high school.

"Would you just let me clean it up?!" She snapped back, forgetting herself, as she stomped to the sink to grab a sponge.

"Don't talk back to me, you fucking-" Whatever else he had been going to say was lost as he slapped her across the face repeatedly, hitting her back and shoulders.

Violet had overstepped her boundaries, she knew, as she sank to the ground, arms over her head, trying to protect herself; but it wasn't fair. She couldn't imagine how it had come to this, how this is fair, what she had done to deserve this treatment from the only guy she had ever been with. The super couldn't say she loved him, she knew that, and couldn't understand why she couldn't leave, and couldn't think of an answer for this, couldn't understand, by the time she had fallen unconscious.

* * *

"W-what?" Elena said faintly, eyes wide as her boss grimly told her the news. "_What_?" 

"I know." He sighed, tapping his thumb on his desk and chewing his lip.

"I- I don't know what to say." She shook her head. "What are you going to do?"

"I… I suppose… go help." He turned in his chair to face her.

"Help?" Elena laughed sardonically. "Don't you think it's a little ironic to help at this point?"

"Let's find the younger kids." He ignored this and sighed again, resigning himself to more work than he had wanted. "Then the girl."

* * *

"Neal!" Elena called in a heavy voice, sighing. "Where's my gun?" 

"You put it on the third shelf on the left!" He called back.

Spinning around, the woman extracted the handgun from its spot on the shelf.

"Thanks." She yelled back out to Neal, fitting the gun into a holster on her hip.

While Elena had, of course, originally been _his_ girlfriend, helping him to run the base, that relationship was over. They had made that clear enough. There were no hard feelings anymore, and Elena had quickly become queen of the base once more; now, she was considering dating Neal.

"Okay, now, we go in, look around, get out." Neal chanted, coming into the armory room. "That's all. No hanging around, no interference, no leaving any cards behi-"

"Neal?" Elena raised an eyebrow. "You do remember I'm higher ranked than you, don't you?"

"Of course, oh Queen…" He mumbled, grinning slightly.

"Right." Elena smirked. "We go in, report anything unusual, leave. _That's_ all."

"Yes, Ms. Benson."

"God, Neal, I told you to stop calling me that years ago! In fact, I think it's high time I put my old name back on the shelf. I was Elena Benson for too many years." She smiled wickedly. "Elena Benson has been dead since she was 15."

Neal grinned wickedly, because he knew exactly what had happened when she was 15 for her to put her name to rest, and held up his walkie talkie.

"Sir, _Mirage_ is ready to leave."

* * *

"What _is_ this place?" He muttered in disgust, looking around the dirty staircase they were climbing. 

"Residence- Parr, Violet," Mirage read off a piece of paper. "This is the place."

"Don't they ever clean here?"

Mirage ignored this, and the three reached the apartment. She picked the lock and glided inside confidently, but she was holding a gun. This time, she wouldn't be unprepared. Not with what had happened _last_ time.

The three were about to split up when Mirage spotted the kitchen. Gasping out, she ran to Violet, who was lying unconscious on the floor, a small pool of blood surrounding her limp form.

"There goes stealthy and uncaring." Neal raised an eyebrow.

"Didn't she have _black_ hair?" Their boss kneeled next to her, frowning.

"Who did this? Was it the…" Mirage asked, then trailed off, ignoring her friend's question, one hand hovering over Violet's bruised arm. "No, no, it wouldn't be; this isn't like what they did."

"She at least knows how to protect herself." Their boss muttered, noticing that the bruises and scrapes were only on her arms and shoulders; none had managed to reach her face.

"How do you know she wasn't trying to…?" Mirage began saying, but trailed off.

"She wasn't trying to kill herself?" Neal finished for her. Mirage nodded weakly.

"Look, if she was committing suicide, there wouldn't be these scrapes on her shoulders and back, too. There aren't knife cuts, anyway."

He stood, pacing the room.

"Mirage, why don't you go get the surveillance equipment. Neal, go find the nearest hotel. Call in back-up. We need to get this place cleaned up."

"And you, sir?"

"I'll stay here." He decided. "And clean up a bit."

Neal raised an eyebrow, but quickly lowered it, because he knew better than to think Syndrome would take mockery lightly.

"Yes, sir."

* * *

He had done his best, but he wasn't quite sure that was _anyone's_ best. Usually, he had his minions do this kind of work. Or didn't do it at all. 

Where did she keep the bandages? The hydrogen peroxide? The first aid kit? Nevertheless, he did manage to find something passable, and wet the face cloth to clear away the blood on her arms and scalp. Frowning, he put hydrogen peroxide on a cotton ball; she jumped as it touched her cuts and bruises, but remained unconscious. Finally, he took as many bandages as there were in the box and covered the larger of the scrapes. When he was throwing away the empty box, he noticed several other empty boxes scattered through the garbage. He shook his head in disgust and turned back to the kitchen, frowning at how the sleeves of her shirt were ripped, as if somebody had grabbed her and she had tried to get away- what was going on in her life?- and just how many patches there were on her jeans. Her college friends probably thought it was done artistically.

He sighed, carrying her to the couch, and tossed a blanket over her, as she was shivering slightly. Finally, he deemed his job done and returned to the kitchen to find something to eat.

After all, he _had_ saved her life, though he was the last person anyone would expect to. He at least deserved a meal in return.

* * *

**Though I hardly deserve it, you know what to do.**


	3. The Truth

**See? I'm updating. On Friday. When I said I would. If anything, I deserve some credit for that. I'm doing better than I was...**

**Well, here's chapter three, changed but not substantially. A handful of readers will find some important changes in here, or rather, one or two important changes that have a lot to do with what I was building up to when I stopped posting. **

**Read on.**

**

* * *

**She wasn't sure when she woke up, exactly. She wasn't sure of a lot of things. Was Tony still here? It didn't sound like him, anyway, walking quietly and being careful not to slam the cabinet doors (not that there was much in them). Well, if not Tony, who was in the kitchen? How had she gotten to the couch? Had someone put her there? Why was she covered in band-aids? Tony would move her somewhere more comfortable when she fell unconscious, but he would not take the time to patch her up. 

Violet tried to sit up on her aching arms, but found the couch didn't want to let go of her; it was strangling her, her arms were pinned to her sides… The blanket she was wrapped in- too tightly, of course, she must've turned over in her sleep and gotten tangled- had gotten stuck under the cushion.

_What happened…? _Violet rolled off the couch, hitting the ground with a light _thump_, and instinctively turned invisible.

* * *

Calmly, he unwrapped the silver packaging on the strawberry Pop-Tarts and took a bite. Mmm. Artificial jelly. Savoring the taste, he wiped a few crumbs from his mouth and turned to throw the silver and blue wrapper away; it was then that he heard the _thump_ behind him, and spun around, looking for the source. He saw nothing. 

Well, nothing except a floating pair of ripped jeans, accompanied by an equally torn t-shirt and a still-new hospital bracelet. Violet didn't seem to realize that she was invisible- or she had forgotten she wasn't in her suit. Whichever was the case, she wouldn't have done it on purpose- what if he was normal?

_Wait, _he thought sarcastically, _I forgot. I am._

"W-who-" She panted, trying to get the words out.

"Who am I?" He finished, smirking. In all honesty, he couldn't wait for her response, even if it was violent. Really, now, imagine-

Violet flicked back into visibility, frowning slightly, and he took this as a Yes.

_Why does this man seem so familiar? Oh, my God, that looks like-_

"An old friend." He answered her question, smirking.

"S-s-s-" She stuttered, then gave up.

Throwing a force field around herself in panic, she screamed.

* * *

When Mirage and Neal returned, they found him sitting at the kitchen table, calmly sipping a cup of coffee and reading the paper, as if this was the most normal thing for a criminal to be doing in his enemy's daughter's apartment at 11:30 at night. Neal noticed a strange look of dread in his eyes, but didn't mention it. 

"Syndrome!" Mirage cried out, running to him. "What's going on here-"

"Shh." He said, annoyed, then shook his head as if she was being unreasonable. "She, ah, just went to sleep awhile ago."

It had been four or five hours since Mirage and Neal had left the apartment- Mirage had to fly back to Nomanisan to pick up the unexpectedly needed surveillance equipment (not to mention several henchmen to set it up) while Neal had been driving around, trying to find a hotel that would suit Syndrome's comfort. He had found a three-star about six miles away, and immediately bought out the suite.

Syndrome, cold-hearted as he may have been at large, had changed considerably since the jet accident. His hair was the same, though at the time, it hadn't been slicked up as usual. _That _might draw a little attention in the hallway. He was a little more appreciative of life, or at least, he had become so in the past few years. The life lesson hadn't hit him until a few months after the accident; he had been watching old news coverage of himself, and it had suddenly hit him that by eliminating the supers in order to be seen as the one true hero, he was placing himself in an untouchable category. In essence, he was doing exactly what Mr. Incredible had done, and exactly what had driven him to do what he had. That night, he aborted all plans for another bout of revenge on the Incredibles and fired half of his guards, silently molding back into the role of weapons dealer. Albeit it may have still been an illegal path, it was much less guilt-ridden.

See, he had several body doubles. One had been on board with him, and it was him that had been sucked into the jet engine. The real Syndrome had been hurt in the crash (and all the other doubles had been killed when the base exploded, but that was a pretty self-destruct-button-like situation) but not badly, thanks to quick use of his zero-point energy. Not so horribly, anyway, that he couldn't return to his secondary base with his pride and rest for a few days with a sprained wrist and a few bruises, maybe one broken rib, but that was easily fixed by the medical team. Of course, he wasn't quite so quick to hurt anyone now, he understood the value. Or, as much as a cold-blooded killer could. But was he such a cold-blooded killer? Really, now, he had been planning on stealing a kid and _raising _him. Sure, the kidnapping part was wrong, but, the raising part…

"Well, what do we do now?" Mirage asked tiredly. It was understandable that she was so exhausted; she had been running around all day, preparing for this.

"Have the men set up the screening equipment back in our hotel room, then come with the FOW2's." He replied swiftly. "Neal and I will stay here for awhile, to make sure her attacker doesn't come back."

"Did you find out who it is?" Mirage asked quietly.

Syndrome shook his head, staring off at the closed door of Violet's bedroom. Mirage frowned in confusion at the number of beer bottles that had appeared on the counter, but didn't say anything, instead choosing to go and retrieve the guards to set up the cameras.

* * *

For a short while before she had finally learned the reason Syndrome and his team had come, Violet had fought against him, trying to prove she was strong enough to beat him down… but she wasn't. The fact that he didn't fight back- didn't see her as a _threat_?- bothered her more, made her more angry. But she was hurt, seriously hurt, and didn't know how much longer she could hold herself up; she was already dizzy, and her head was throbbing, but she knew that with her metabolism and quick healing, she would feel better within the hour. After ten minutes of just uselessly beating her fists against his chest, she eventually gave up and slid to the floor, clutching her head. Surprisingly enough, Syndrome had squatted down next to her, put a hand on her shoulder. 

"Are you alright?" He said professionally.

"Yes, just peachy." She said sarcastically, gritting her teeth. "What do you think!"

"Who did this to you?" He asked quietly, narrowing his eyes.

She was taken aback, confused at his question. Why did he want to know? To recruit him onto his team, train him to be his sidekick, as he had once said he would do with Jack-Jack?

"I don't remember." She hissed defensively. "All I remember is being hurt, and you- and you in the kitchen!"

At this point, the tired, injured super came to the conclusion that if she _pretended _to think Syndrome was the attacker, she could get by without telling the truth for a while longer.

"Right." Syndrome drawled, raising an eyebrow, then apparently gave up on this question, switching tactics. "Are you hungry?"

"What?!" She exclaimed, confused. "You attack me to the point of losing consciousness, and now you want to know if I'm _hungry_?"

"Cut the crap, _Violet_." Syndrome rolled his eyes. "You know as well as I do I'm not here to attack you. Are you hungry or not?"

Chastised, she paused, then responded meekly that she wasn't, she was just fine. Her stomach chose just now to complain loudly that she had not been able to eat her ramen, the stomach acid inside it wasn't enough, and it might enjoy some food right about now; preferably something involving a lot of carbohydrates. Syndrome stood up quickly, moving to the cabinets, and pulled out another package of Ramen, as he had thrown the cold soup on the table into the garbage.

"This stuff is horrible for you, you know." He remarked, pulling a pot out of the drying rack.

"What did you expect, lobster bisque?" She demanded, and he chuckled.

"You really need to learn to control that temper." He shook his head.

She paused, then sighed.

"If you're not here to attack me, even though you've made that the _clear _reason, why _are _you here?"

"Reconnaissance." He answered simply, then paused, uncomfortable. "We wanted to see how much you know."

"About what?" She asked apprehensively.

"About your family." He said quietly.

Alarms went off in Violet's head about her usually frequently visiting family. It was Monday; her mother _always_ called on Sunday afternoons, without fail, and in the extremely rare case she couldn't, she would call Saturday night. Her mother had not called yesterday.

"What happened?" She demanded, her voice getting higher and higher pitched.

"Listen… Violet, I'm-"

"Tell me!" She yelled, the super's usually tired voice almost an octave higher than usual.

Syndrome sighed, then sat her down at the kitchen table, abandoning the empty pot and Ramen package on the stove.

"Violet…" He began, hands folded, and she promptly burst out crying.

"How many of them?" She sobbed, her face in her hands, knees coming up to her chest, heels of her feet rested on the chair.

Syndrome paused, unsure of how to answer; something inside him squirmed guiltily. Wait- what was that? _Pity? _For his enemy's daughter, someone he hardly knew, someone that he had once been plotting to kill? No. It couldn't be. Dismissing this emotion, he sighed and laid his hands flat on the table, closing his eyes; at the moment, he didn't want to see her expression.

"All of them."

He waited for the news of her family's death to sink in, holding his breath. ½ a second, 1 second, 1 ½…

"You killed my family!!" She shrieked, eyes wide and blind, and Syndrome jumped up.

"That's not what happened!" He roared. "Listen to me!"

She suppressed another sob, slowly turning her gaze at him in fear, shock, misery…

"There was a mole in the NSA." Syndrome said slowly, voice heavy. "Since your family's was the last file accessed, they managed to get into that one. The program kicked them out just as it reached Parr, Helen. Your file wasn't opened. They sold the information to a super defamation league. They were lynched."

She cringed at the term, at this new revelation- her family, gone, all of them. Violet was the only Incredible left; other than Frozone, the only _Super _left.

"B-but," Tears were flowing freely now, and she made no attempt to stop them, "Dash and Jack-Jack were away on vacation…"

"We went to go contact them." Syndrome sighed again. "When we got there, they had already been there. It was too late. I'm sorry, Violet."

Syndrome tried to look the distraught super in the eye, but found it physically impossible; this was the girl that, not six years ago, he himself had made every effort to kill.

No, no, he corrected himself, he had only explicitly wanted Incredible dead, though, at the time, found killing his daughter to be spectacular revenge. Violet stood shakily, pausing for a moment as if teetering on the edge of a giant cliff, before breaking into a run from the kitchen into the living room. Midway there, she tripped- it looked like her ankle might've been twisted, possibly sprained. Crying out in utter despair, Violet fell, crumpling into a heap on the ground. Syndrome tried to help her up, but she pulled away from him, mustering dignity enough to collapse on the couch, crying quietly to herself.

Syndrome sighed, shaking his head at how monstrously that had gone, and turned towards the fridge. WIth a little more force than necessary, he grasped a beer bottle in his hand and slammed the fridge door shut. It set off a set of chimes hanging from a magnet on the door, and he winced as Violet stirred, sniffing to herself, and peered at him. Her eyes lit on the bottle in his hand, and she let out a sigh of defeat, screwing up her face in frustration. Syndrome opened the door again and took out another bottle before walking over to the couch and handing it to her solemnly.

"I'm sorry."

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**So, I have a task for you:**

**Old readers- do you notice/ know what the changes are, and do you think there's any way I could've handled them better? I felt it was kind of choppy. Also, in the future, I'm going to have a few questions on Mirage, so dredge up all you can from memory about her and what she did before and after That Much Bigger Than Everything Else Thing She Did.**

**New readers- How do you feel about Syn at this point? I hadn't put anything in the last version about seeing himself as Mr. Incredible, but transitioned right from "They'll pay," to "I'm here to protect you," with not much transcience in his character between then. Opinions on how you think the deaths of the Incredibles would affect everyone, opinions on everything. Favorite line, least favorite line, whatever. I want to know what you think, besides "update soon, please!" **

**"Update soon, please" doesn't earn you review cookies :P**

**So review with substance!**

irishpiratess


	4. Making Plans

Be entirely grateful you're getting this chapter. My internet has bit the dust (well... more accurately, my neighbors turned on the security, so that my wireless adaptor can't take their signal...) and so I am retyping the _entire _chapter, reading it off a printed page off my now-internetless-computer in an internet cafe downtown.

**As I said... be entirely grateful. This cafe mocha doesnt have nearly enough sugar. **

**Thank you to all reviewers and such. On with the story. I don't have much time...**

**Also, I apologize beforehand for any spelling mistakes.

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For about a half hour after Mirage and Neal returned, Syndrome went around the apartment, trying to clean as much of it as possible, while Neal went to go see if he could find a grocery store. Although the now-third-in-command didn't dare say it aloud, though he had become something of a brother to Syndrome, he highly doubted his boss sent Neal out of the apartment merely because he thought Violet might be hungry later. Syndrome had also sent Mirage to the hotel room with the surveillance monitors, to set up. But, regardless of what Neal thought Syndrome's intentions were and why he wanted to be alone, he went without a complaint.

Syndrome wandered around the apartment, trying to see what hte life of the daughter of Mr. Incredible had become. It was filthy, empty beer bottles everyhwere, but he doubted she was the one emptying them- at least, excluding the ones he had helped her with earlier. In the living room, hidden under a few magazines and one beer can that had been placed atop the stack like a flag on a castle tower, the curious man found a photo album. Despite the album's decrepit, dirty appearance, some of the pictures seemed fairly recent, and he flipped through it; Violet, much, much younger- younger than when he had first encountered her- then much, much older. She would be, what, eighteen now? Nineteen? The last picture seemed more recent than the rest; at what appeared to be a barbecue, Violet was standing with a brown-haired man, his arm around her waist tightly, and he was holding a beer .There were a few more empty cans around where they stood. She looked scared. He looked drunk.

_Boyfriend_. Syndrome nodded to himself, then sneered at the picture. _And possibly her attacker_.

Although he couldn't understand it, Syndrome felt kind of guilty, inviting himself into her home and life, looking through her things and setting up cameras in her walls. Midway through that thought, he stopped himself. Guilty? For looking, for trying to _protect_? When had looking and monitoring ever become guilt-ridden? Why would he feel guilt now, when he hadn't felt a modicum of it after destroying half of Metroville?

Probably with more force than necessary, Syndrome replaced the album roughly and went to put away the dishes. Not, of course, that it would matter, if the people that had killed her family came for her, too. It was more than likely that she would end up at the new island, the new base, before the week was out.

But it might as well have looked nice while she still lived there.

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"Sir, where do you want the cameras set up?" Neal asked, arms crossed, scrutinizing the dirty room.  
"One in the kitchen, the corner by the sink. Two in the living room... one above the TV, one in the corner by the window. One above the front door, pointing towards the kitchen." Syndrome finished, and Mirage nodded her approval.

The henchmen that had been brought back with Mirage immediately rushed forward with the four cameras and set them up- they were no bigger than a few millimeters in diameter, and were practically impossible to see unless you knew they were there. Which Violet would, of course, but she would have to understand that it was for her own protection. Quicker than one would think possible, the men drilled miniscule holes into the walls, filled them with adhesive, and, after pressing a small button on the back of the cameras, popped them in. Excess glue was wiped away and the men stood back, studying the cameras carefully; a small beep and a flash of light from each, and they scanned the wall they fit into before a glaze mimicking the color spread over the lens. In all, they were completely undetectable, unless you knew what you were detecting.

"They have a heat sensor in them." Syndrome cited, proud. "So, even if Violet disappears, we'll still be able to see her."  
"Very good, sir." A henchman said, nodding eagerly.  
"Of course it's good!" Syndrome snapped at him, insulted that the guard thought he needed the praise he knew he had already earned.  
"Would you all be _quiet_!" Violet bellowed from her room, half-asleep, her headache apparent even in her voice. "I'm trying to sleep in here!"

A pause followed, then a _clunk_, as of someone rolling out of bed quickly and hitting the floor; Violet ran into the room, now wearing a tank top and plaid pajama shorts.

"Who are all you people?" Violet clutched her head, eyes slammed shut against the bright lights. "What are you doing with _drills_? Oh, God, you really are here to kill me..."  
"Violet, really, calm down-" Mirage began gently.  
"If we were here to kill you, we would've done it while you were unconscious on the floor." Neal smirked, but the expression was wiped off his face at hte sight of Mirage's reproachful glare.

Syndrome remained silent and stoic, staring at the cameras as if they had just told him some grand secret.

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** A/N I just wanted to let you know, the line breaks seem to be malfunctioning. I had to insert this one at the top and drag it down here -a few of them appeared on the actual website, right above where it says edit/preview and mode: simple mode / html. I only know this because I was just going to pause and let you know that, now the whipped cream has melted into my mocha, there is plenty of sugar in it, and it tastes better. This equals upswing in Sam Mood Percentage. Which may equal more cookies for reviews, faster typing, and less grammatical and spelling errors.**

**

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Violet collapsed into a chair at the kitchen table and stared around at all the guards stuffed into her small kitchen.

"Here." Mirage handed her something that looked like it may have started out as a wristwatch, smiling sadly.  
"What is all this?" Violet sighed tiredly, waving the wristwatch in her hand, then indicating the guards.  
"It's a communicator. If you're in trouble, just hit the button and yell for us." Mirage smiled wryly. "Not that we'll hear you yelling. But it'll make you feel better. It's for your protection, as well as the cameras we've installed."

Mirage's smile became reassuring now, but the girl didn't seem to feel all too reassured.

"From what? Protection from what?" She shook her head pitifully, not understanding.  
"The people who killed your family." Syndrome said quietly, not looking her in the eye.

Violet's eyes watered again, hearing the words "killed" and "family" in the same context. She promptly dissolved into tears, and Mirage rushed forward, her instincts (though not matneral) kicking in. Despite that Mirage was only trying to comfort her, Violet tore away from her and ran back to her room, slamming the door shut. Mirage sighed, and Syndrome remained silent. Neal sighed along with Mirage.

"It's gonna be a long night."

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Violet was finally asleep; still dealing, on a more subconscious level, with the deaths of her parents and brothers, through the nightmares of childish fears.

At the moment, a scary shadow-monster from the closet was chasing her through a dark, haunted forest; she pushed her way through branches and sharp brambles, cutting her face and arms on the thorns. Violet stumbled over roots and rocks, her super abilities forgotten in the heart-pounding fear that consumed her. For comfort, or perhaps protection, she carried her baby blanket, soft blue, pink, and yellow with flower designs on the edges; but she tripped, falling to the ground. The shadow monster ripped the blanket from her, and she started sobbing.

"Give me my bankie back." Violet hicupped, hands coming to her face in a pitiful wail.

The monster stood tall above her, laughing; a flame burst from his hand and fell onto the blanket. Fire crept up the edges before it came to the middle; the monster dropped the blanket, a pile of ashes, and disappeared.

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**Not the best quality ever, but the best I can muster sitting on an uncomfortable stool drinking too-bitter mocha downtown with no notice that my internet would fail me today. **

**So, please, review, and perhaps when my internet has come back to me, I will re-repost this chapter with fixed spelling/grammar/plotline/etc. **

**REVIEWS POR FAVOR! **

**irishpiratess.**


	5. AHHHH

**Okay, I know. Bad, bad piratess. No authors notes as chapters.**

**Not really. Am updating chapters in groups from now on, once a month. So, like, 3 or 4 chapters at once, once a month, starting next week/ two weeks from now. **

**I want to get back into some of my other fics, too, the ones I haven't even posted, and especially Inescapable, perhaps a companion to I Miss You, and definitely a few more for Potential Energy. (harry potter, harry potter, and the office, respectively.)**

**So expect a grouping of chapters soon! **

IP


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